Through the Glass
by ncis-lady
Summary: "Just don't take too long, okay?" Steve asks, even though he knows that it is neither in Bucky's hands nor in his. It'll take as long as it takes, the doctors say, and Steve is afraid that it'll take forever. - Filler fic starting with Steve's and Bucky's farewell in Wakanda and covering Steve's time between CA:CW and IW. No slash. Rated T for language. ON HIATUS
1. Day 0

Happy New Year everyone! This year we'll get to see Infinity War and I don't know if I'm excited or scared. (Just kidding, I'm super excited!)

This is a kind of filler fic that came to mind when I listened to Stone Sour's "Through glass". (I know that I'm taking the chorus too literally, but I couldn't help but think of Bucky and Steve.) I have a rough outline for several chapters covering Steve's time between CA:CA and IW, but I'm not sure when I'll finish these short chapters. This first chapter can be read as a stand-alone one-shot so I decided to post it now.

This is NOT a slash fic, but I guess the first chapter can be interpreted whichever way you like. Rated T for language.

I haven't read the comics, this is just my idea based on the movies so far and the trailer for IW. I don't own the characters, I'm just playing in Marvel's sandbox and building things that I would have liked/would like to see in the movie.

* * *

 _I'm looking at you through the glass_

 _Don't know how much time has passed_

 _Oh God it feels like forever_

 _But no one ever tells you that forever feels like home_

(Stone Sour, "Through Glass")

* * *

 **Through the Glass**

 **Day 0**

There's too much white. Steve knows that it should have a calming effect, but to him it is too bright, too sterile. It brings back memories of a time long past, of linoleum hallways and nurses and frail fingers clutching his hand before they become lifeless.

"It's time, Captain."

The voice of Wakanda's king startles him. He spins on the spot and meets the eyes of T'Challa, who has exchanged his colorful robes for a white cloak. He doesn't smile today and there is a kind of sadness in his dark eyes that Steve hasn't seen in him before. It mirrors the aching in his chest.

It is time.

T'Challa leads him through a door into another room, and Steve finds it suddenly very hard to keep his eyes from burning.

"Hey Steve."

He's never seen him smile like that, not in a very long time. If anything, it is this sight that lets him know that the choice was right. There are four doctors fiddling with cables and gas lines, one of them is typing away on a keyboard with his eyes set on a computer screen, and a woman is inspecting the inside of the glass chamber.

Steve realizes that he's been staring, and he diverts his gaze and wills his stomach to stop clenching. It'll be alright. He can do this. He needs to be strong.

"Hey Buck."

He's dressed all in white, except for the black cap that covers his shoulder right where his arm ought to be. He's sitting on a bench, feet dangling in mid-air, but all Steve really sees is the smile on his face.

He wonders how Bucky can smile like that if Steve is fighting so hard to stop the burning in his eyes.

"Steve. It's good to see you."

"Are you sure about this?"

It's a stupid question, he knows that well enough. Bucky has made his choice long ago. But he wants to be absolutely, one hundred percent sure, for otherwise he will always ask himself if he should have stopped him.

It's a desperate question, and Bucky knows that, too.

"I can't trust my own mind," he says, looking up at him with that gleam in his eyes that hasn't been there for decades, and adds, "So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing. For everybody."

He sounds so confident, but Steve detects the subliminal shaking of his voice. Bucky's just as scared as he is. It's just that he knows the alternative is not acceptable.

The few steps between where he is standing and where his friend is sitting feel like miles, and yet he makes them too quickly, wishing he could walk more slowly just to have more time. When he reaches him, Bucky gets off the bench. For a moment they just stand there, facing each other; the doctors, the white coats, even the King disappear. It feels horribly familiar and Steve wonders if Bucky remembers it, too.

"Buck…"

To his horror and shame, he feels his eyes burning for real now. He's supposed to be supportive, strong, sensible; Captain America doesn't cry.

Steve Rogers, on the other hand, is sick of goodbyes.

"Yeah," Bucky says, and only Steve can see the turmoil of emotions behind blue eyes. "I know."

"Just don't take too long, okay?" Steve asks, even though he knows that it is neither in Bucky's hands nor in his. It'll take as long as it takes, the doctors say, and Steve is afraid that it'll take forever.

"You know I can't promise that," Bucky replies and for a brief moment casts down his gaze. Steve has never before realized that he is actually the smaller one now. He wants to pull him close, hug him, put everything he cannot say into the embrace, but he can't move.

"It'll be alright," he manages to say and he marvels at the rawness of his voice. "I'll make sure it will."

"I know. Just promise me you won't start fucking things up when I'm gone. Don't…" Bucky hesitates, looks at Steve; there is a shadow of confusion on his face. He frowns. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back."

He ends on a slightly higher note which makes it almost sound like a question, as if he's unsure about whether or not he is choosing the right words. Steve can feel the air leaving his lungs; he feels numb, shocked. There is only one answer to Bucky's plea, it's on the tip of his tongue, but his throat is dry and he stays silent.

"Promise, Steve?"

He nods. He balls his hands to fists to keep himself from letting his guard down and pull his friend so close and hold him so tight that his bones will break.

"Promise, jerk."

It's all Steve manages to say and the words come out all wrong, they don't sound right, and it takes him a heartbeat or two to understand that he misses Bucky's response. He should say something, but instead he, too, seems unable to speak.

A whizzing noise startles him. It's the glass front of the chamber being opened. It is time and God help him, he's afraid.

"Damnit, Buck –"

He takes a step forward, cautiously, insecurely. Steve can remember the last time he's hugged Bucky as if it was yesterday. This is different, though. It was never a big deal, but now Steve knows how his friend reacts to being touched; a simple act like laying a hand on his shoulders can make him tense up as if he expects the hand to bring pain rather than comfort. It's a thought that makes Steve's stomach turn in the most unpleasant way and which lets the beast within let out an angry growl. It's not right.

Maybe he should just let him go like this.

But deep down, he knows that he'll regret it. So he takes another step; they are so close now that Steve can see his own reflection in the familiar pair of eyes. And suddenly he has his chin pressed against Bucky's shoulder, his hands grabbing the white cotton shirt that looks so strange on him. He can feel his muscles getting tense for a second and he is ready to pull back, even though it'll take more strength than he can possibly muster. But then his friend relaxes and he can feel his hair brushing against his cheek.

There are half a dozen people watching, but Steve couldn't care less.

He squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment that no one will see, just to engrave the memory of this moment into his very bones. No matter how long it will take until they meet again, he will remember this. They both will, he believes with all his heart.

"Don't take too long, okay?" he mumbles with an unsaid _Every single day will be too long_ ; his voice is muffled against Bucky's skin and he wonders if he can even hear him.

"Don't forget about me, okay?" comes the even quieter response, followed by an unspoken _Even if I forget about myself_ that only Steve can hear.

They part painfully slow and at the same time way too quickly. A smile, a deep intake of breath, and then Bucky walks towards the chamber, while Steve remains on that very spot, hoping beyond hope that as long as he doesn't move, neither will time.

It's a frighteningly familiar thought; it brings back memories of clinging to the metallic door of a speeding train, wind biting at his skin, tears freezing on his cheeks, of praying that as long as he stays on the side of that train to Hell it will not become real.

But this is different. This goodbye is not forever.

The doctors block his view for a while, and the next time he sees him, Bucky is already secured inside the chamber. There is the ghost of a smile on his face and as the glass panel locks, Steve can see his shoulders sag in relief. The machines get louder. T'Challa has explained every detail of the technology, but Steve's mind is blank. He watches, motionless, as ice creeps up the glass. For the blink of an eye their gazes lock, then Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Steve, though, is suffocating.

There are IV lines entering the chamber, reassuring him that his friend won't feel the sharp pain of the frost. He can see the monitor and the numbers that prove he's alive. But he can't shake the feeling that the chamber looks like a coffin.

The small crystals grow fast; there's white vapor inside the chamber that becomes denser.

Steve remembers sunsets above the water, when the sun would do its downward curse excruciatingly slow, never seeming to reach the line where sky and water meet, only to then vanish within a heartbeat and make way for the darkness of night to cover the earth. Today, it is a bit like this. One moment, he can still see Bucky, though he doesn't see Steve; he can see the smile and the closed eyes and the absence of the usual frown. And then he blinks and he is gone. There is only ice, a wall of frozen flowers separating him from his best friend and his old life.

T'Challa pats his shoulder and speaks what are probably words of comfort, but Steve doesn't hear him through the white noise deafening his ears. The doctors check the monitor and the chamber; they type away on the keyboard and discuss the numbers on the screen.

Half a dozen people surround him, but Steve has never felt more alone.


	2. Day 1

Just a very short chapter which works as an interlude of some sort.

* * *

 **Day 1**

"I have to go."

T'Challa nods as if he has expected Steve to say that.

"Don't worry, Captain. We will take good care of your friend."

Steve can feel the cold creeping up on him, and he wonders if Bucky feels the same. Of course he _knows_ that right now, he doesn't feel a thing, and that Bucky might not even find it too bad. No warmth, sure, but also neither pain nor fear.

Part of Steve wishes he could be in his place.

He wants to feel numb; he remembers the days in 1944 after Bucky's fall and how empty he felt inside. Today is different. It's another kind of sadness, the kind that puts your heart in iron chains and weighs heavy on your soul, making every breath painful and seemingly useless for no matter how much air you pump into your lungs, you're still suffocating. It's the kind of sadness that quickly turns to anger, this fiery demon that makes your very bones go up in flames until you want to scream and make someone suffer for the agony you're going through. It's the kind of sadness that keeps you frozen in place upon hearing a single word while inside you're shaking like a blade of grass in a cyclone.

He'd rather feel nothing at all than this.

Steve needs a while to notice that the King is still watching him.

"Thank you, your Highness."

It's all he can think of saying. It's certainly not the appropriate answer when the King of Wakanda and the people of this glorious nation have done so much for these two strangers.

"May I ask you where you are planning to go to, Captain Rogers?"

Of course he may ask. He just can't expect an answer. Steve shrugs and takes a deep breath.

"I don't know yet. Just gonna figure it out along the way."

He can't go back to the Avengers. After everything that's happened, the prospect of marching into the Tower makes him sick. Nothing will ever be the same, and he asks himself who will be there when the dust settles.

His thoughts turn to his team. They were caught in the crossfire and are now paying for it.

Steve squares his shoulders. He knows where he has to go first. One last act of rebellion might just be what he needs, he thinks, and he owes them so much that he doesn't care about the consequences for himself, as long as he gets them out.

"I think I know where to start," he says and T'Challa smiles.

"It is always most important to figure out the first step. The next will be decided by that."

"Yeah." He hesitates. He has asked for too much already.

"Do you want to say your farewell?"

Steve can see the lab door behind T'Challa's back. He feels his hand beginning to shake as he visualizes what's behind it.

"I have already done that," he replies and hates himself for his cowardice. "There's nothing else I could say. But…"

"You are welcome in Wakanda anytime, Captain," the King tells him as if he can read his mind. Steve wishes he would stop calling him that. He's not a Captain anymore; he lost that rank along with his shield.

He would gladly give it up all over again if it brought back everything else he's lost.

"Whenever you need to drop by, don't hesitate. And I assure you, I will let you know as soon as anything happens."

Steve can feel the cellphone burning inside the pocket of his jeans. For good news, the nurse has said. For emergencies, Steve thinks.

"Thank you, your Highness."

He bows slightly and waits until the King dismisses him. Before he leaves, he glances at the door one last time. He hesitates for a moment. But he has said everything there is to say, and the glass doesn't answer anyway, so there's no point, really.

He ignores the voice inside that blames him for his cowardice.

Steve walks down the hallway, his steps echoing like thunder on the floor; it feels like the ground is shaking. He doesn't turn his head for he's afraid to see the ruins he's leaving behind. So much has been broken in the wake of his departure and he has yet to find the courage to pick up the pieces.


	3. Day 27

**Day 27**

Steve likes the city. He's never been to Copenhagen before, but he enjoys it. It's nothing like New York; it's remote despite it being a capital and the people are friendly even though – or maybe because – they don't recognize him. He got himself The Guardian, the only English newspaper he could find in the little shop around the corner. He's become a master at scanning the headlines for important news.

No news concerning him.

Nothing big is happening. The world seems at some sort of peace, although Steve is well aware of the fact that no matter how easy life is here in Northern Europe, it's hardly peaceful in other parts of the world. There's nothing about Tony or the Avengers in general, and while two weeks ago the escape of several superheroes from a high security underwater prison made a huge headline, it has been reduced to a tiny note on page 5. Steve knows they suspect him, but no one can prove it, he's made sure of it. He trusts his friends to not say a word in case they are interrogated.

Well, the authorities have to find them first.

A waitress comes to his table with a steaming pot of coffee which she places in front of him. It's his third already, but the girl - Berit, the nametag reveals - doesn't comment on it.

"Your coffee, Sir, I hope you enjoy it," she says with almost no accent, just like the first two times. It never seizes to amaze Steve how perfectly the people here speak his language. Quickly, he moves the newspaper and makes place for the mug.

"Mange tak," he replies, wincing inwardly at his poor attempt to get out these two simplest words. The girl acknowledges his effort with a beaming smile before she turns around.

He watches her for maybe a moment too long. Guiltily, he thinks of Sharon. They really should have talked about that kiss and what it means to them. Then again, he actually has no idea what it _does_ mean to him. It sure means _something_ , that much he knows.

He wonders what she's doing right now. He checks his watch – she's probably sleeping. It would be rude to call her now.

When did he become such a coward?

Steve sips the coffee and keeps on reading the newspaper, pushing all thoughts of his former teammate aside. There'll be a time and place for such things.

The thought crosses his mind that he could talk about this with Sam. Sam's good at this, at least he thinks so. It's not like Steve is too experienced in that subject. But he hasn't spoken to Sam ever since the breakout and he's afraid of giving him trouble by calling him. Clint and Scott have their families, and Wanda… he doesn't think he can look her in the eyes just yet. Everything she went through because of him, being locked up, restrained – it's more than he can bear to think about. She's said she doesn't blame him, but that doesn't mean he doesn't blame himself.

It's weird how the people he's failed always seem to forgive him before he can forgive himself.

Steve glances at his phone. No missed calls, no unread texts.

He downs the last of the coffee and searches his wallet for a few euros. He can see the waitress approaching, but he isn't in the mood for a conversation, so he just leaves some cash on the table along with the newspaper.

He strolls aimlessly through the streets, dodging bikers and skaters left, right and center. This is something new for him. American cities are filled with taxis and buses, but here the people ride their bikes everywhere. Grown-ups and children, students and bankers, tracksuits or Armani suits.

Images of a green-and-black bike come up inside his head and it's almost unreal how much the fleeting memory makes his heart ache.

He wonders if Bucky would like Copenhagen. Maybe it would be too small for him, he thinks. Not enough ways to disappear within a crowd, to become invisible. The new Bucky might find it intolerable to be exposed like that. Steve swears to himself that someday, he'll take Buck for a bike tour through Denmark's capital. It's what old people do, after all. Get on a bike, do some sightseeing, and maybe eventually, reach the sea and go fishing. At least that's what Steve thinks they do here. It's not like he can just ask someone. But he likes the idea.

He heads towards the small B&B where he has been staying for two days now. There's wi-fi and a TV, but as he checks various news sites and turns on CNN, he again finds no news waiting for him. It should be a good sign. But he can't shake the feeling that he's missing something.


	4. Day 32

**Day 32**

"The usual?"

Steve nods andBerit smiles happily. He watches her leave, knowing she'll be back in exactly four minutes. He'll make room for the mug, moving the newspaper a little bit, and eventually he'll leave 7,50 € and head towards his B&B.

He is aware of the fact that staying too long might blow his cover at some point, but somehow, in this city people don't seem to look at him as closely as they might elsewhere. It's a strange folk, these Northerners. Right now, it's just what he needs. He's been here a week and part of him enjoys the peace and quiet. He has ordered a couple of books online which have been sent to his current address. Some novel that Sam recommended a while ago, before everything fell apart. A biography of Martin Luther King. Three books by renowned psychology and neuroscience experts.

He wishes he could talk to Bruce about these.

Reluctantly, he pulls the phone out of his pocket. He unlocks the screen, even though he knows there's nothing to find. The volume's on, he never sets it to offline mode, and his enhanced hearing wouldn't let him miss a mouse squeaking, let alone the familiar signal of an incoming text or call. He'd recognize the ringtone anywhere. The ringtone that T'Challa – apparently still a kid at heart beneath the constant frown and the black suit - set to the Pink Panther theme song.

Steve found out about this when he used the B&B's phone to call himself. After all, he had to make sure the phone worked.

He could ask Bruce for scientific advice. He could speak to Sam, find out if he's alright, if the others are okay. He should maybe call Tony. More than anything, he wants to talk to Bucky.

"Maybe you should just call her."

He startles and almost drops the phone. Hastily, he pushes it away. The waitress looks at him apologetically.

"I shouldn't have said that. Not appropriate, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Steve replies dismissively. Hell, he's done a lot of inappropriate things lately. Who's he to blame her? As she places the coffee in front of him, he feels like he needs to explain himself.

"It's not like that. I mean, not a girl."

"Oh." Does she look disappointed? "Well, whatever, it's perfectly fine, it's not that I have anything against –"

Steve can't stifle the low chuckle. He picks up the coffee and takes a sip.

"Oh no, no, it's not like that, either. It's just… there's this friend I used to have, best friend actually, but we've become… estranged." It's not the right word, but it should be enough of an explanation. "Some stuff has happened recently that's just not so easily overcome when you're on your own, you know? But I'm not sure if contacting him will help. We've been through some shit – I mean, some hard times. Sorry."

Berit laughs and holds out her hand.

"One dollar for the swear jar, Sir."

It's a joke and she can't really know about the many times Tony has said this to him after that one – _one_! – incident. Still, Steve can't shake the cold washing over him or the stabbing sensation that comes with the distant echo of memories of better times. It's been over a month since they've last spoken, and even longer since the last conversation that ended on friendly terms. Tony still hasn't called. He shouldn't expect him to, either. Steve knows how stubborn and proud Tony Stark is, and he's also well aware of the fact that he's hurt him. He won't forgive him so easily. Steve wouldn't, if their roles were reversed. Maybe they are more alike that he thought, and this is probably one of the reasons why they always struggled to get along.

With Bucky, things have always been different from any other friendship he's known. They're very much alike and yet quite the opposite, both equipped with a certain amount of pride and stubbornness. But where Steve spits fire and wants to take on the world at once, Bucky has always been more strategic, taking down one at a time, thinking before acting. Steve has always been prone to take things personal, something that probably comes inevitably when you grow up small and frail and sick. Bucky, on the other hand, never had to worry about people thinking less of him. Never needed to earn respect like Steve did.

It's these small differences that add up so perfectly to a bond closer than that between brothers.

"Sir?"

Steve flinches and almost drops his coffee mug. Some of the black liquid spills onto the newspaper.

"I'm sorry, got lost in thought there for a moment," he says and takes a deep breath. He can only imagine how Sam and Bucky would unite in their mutual amusement at their friend's idiocy.

"It's alright," the girl replies with her perfect smile plastered on her face. "I'll leave you alone before my lose mouth causes more embarrassment for both of us."

She hurries away, much to Steve's relief.

He wipes a drop of coffee off the phone's screen. It's not so difficult, he tells himself. And totally justified to ask after his friends.

But when the coffee is emptied, the phone is back in his pocket.

* * *

 _A/N: I've been super lazy lately, I'm sorry. I hope I get back to writing more now that I've completely settled at my new home._


	5. Day 62

Sorry for the lack of updates. Somehow the story is in my head but doesn't want to be written. So much for "I'll finish it until IW"... Have you seen Black Panther yet? I loved it and it got me even more hyped for IW. Next month! (One of the upsides of living in Germany, release date in April 26 ;) )

* * *

 **Day 62**

The water of the lake is completely calm. There is no breeze to stir the surface and as Steve looks closer, he can see the bottom through the crystal clear liquid. Not far away a fire is crackling. People are gathered around it, some sitting, some standing, chatting, laughing. He hears the clinking sound of bottles and the music coming from a radio.

He was told that this is the place to spend the night, and even though he has been reluctant at first, he doesn't regret going now. It's nice to be around people without being forced to socialize. He is aware of the fact that the natives give him funny looks from time to time, but he doesn't care. It's understandable, he thinks. He's said hello and has then gone to the edge of the water. The last rays of sunlight hit his face and he closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and another, and another. In and out, just breathe.

Somewhere, the radio is turned off. A girl starts singing and quickly others join in. He doesn't understand a word. Maybe it's a traditional song. Finnish sounds extremely weird and complicated. It's nothing like Swedish that has at least a few words which sound familiar. But despite his lack of understanding, Steve feels the impact of the song nonetheless. It's not something he could logically explain. Maybe it's the sound, maybe it's the place, maybe it's the energy that comes from the people gathered around the fire that makes his skin tingle. Probably it's a combination of everything.

It's close to midnight, but there's still light out here. During midsummer, the days are never-ending and the darkness of night is, for a while, kept at bay. In six months, the roles will be reversed. The nights will seem unending, dark and frightening. But in the end that darkness, too, will pass.

It's a comforting thought that makes Steve smile for the first time in a long time.

He can hear someone approaching and turns around. A young man holds out a bottle of beer to him.

"Haluatko myös yhden?"

Steve doesn't understand a word of this gibberish, but the gesture gives him an idea of what the stranger meant.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Finnish," he says, to which the man nods and basically presses the bottle into his hands. "Thanks."

"We are going to start a second round of barbecue over there, feel free to join us."

Surprised, Steve nods and opens his mouth to respond, but the man has already left. Finnish people aren't the most outgoing when it comes to welcoming strangers, at least that's Steve's impression. But it's midsummer, the days are long, it must have a positive effect on people. Still, he doesn't feel like going.

From the corner of his eye he watches the small group. An older man has fetched a guitar and plays along to the song. Steve remembers a night in a bar back in the winter of '43/'44. Dum Dum was a great singer. Steve – not so much. It was something the others never stopped teasing him about. He might be a supersoldier, stronger than everyone else, but his vocal chords must have been distorted when they grew, they said. Bucky took his side most of the time just to hide the fact that he wasn't much better than Steve.

At least, that's how it had always been. Before the war, Bucky had hummed and sung all the time, badly out of tune, sometimes on purpose just to annoy Steve and make the girls giggle. When Steve met him again in Europe, Bucky didn't really sing all that much. When asked, he dismissed the very idea that something was wrong.

Steve wonders how things might have turned out if he had been more persistent in finding out about the events in Krausberg.

It's a dangerous trail of thought. It's too late now, anyway. The past is the past, the darkness came and passed. And somehow, no matter what happened, Bucky made it through. He got away, lived a life, just for the world to maim it again. Steve can still see the apartment in Bukarest, the mattress in the corner, the cupboard and the small stove, the pile of books, a shirt flung over the back of the chair. Scattered pieces that, while they didn't make a complete puzzle, let you know that there was someone trying to live.

The police must have turned the apartment upside down. It's a disturbing thought somehow, like it wasn't enough that strangers messed with his head, but then had to destroy what little he had rebuilt as well. It makes Steve wonder if someone new lives there now. Someone who doesn't know anything about the man who used to live there before. Someone who has their own struggles, their own sorrows, someone who will be grateful for the mattress that Bucky left behind even if it has bullet holes in it.

He takes a sip from the bottle and watches the sun sink into the water. The lake lights up with gold, the people around the fire are silent, and Steve just looks, mesmerized, as the darkness tries to find its way across the horizon, only to be drowned out by the light reflected from the surface. The equilibrium seems to last forever.

And then, slowly, the fireball rises again.

The crowd gasps and laughs, eventually the music starts again, and Steve is glad that he is standing there by the edge of the water alone. Ever since the serum, he doesn't feel cold, but now there are shivers running down his spine and a burning sensation in his eyes. He empties the bottle, gaze still set on the horizon, and promises that someday he'll try to describe this moment to Bucky.

If words aren't enough, he'll drag him here next year.


	6. Day 89

**Day 89**

Nothing has changed. It's the first thing Steve notices as he walks the streets of Bucharest. It's even market day; there are stands everywhere with people selling fruits and vegetables and bread. Just like then.

Steve meanders across the market place, dodging women carrying several bags at once, men dragging carts across the pavement and children running blindly towards their parents. The air is buzzing with a positive kind of energy. As long as he keeps his eyes away from the side alleys and the bus stops where people sleep under blankets of papers, Steve could be under the impression that life is simply good here.

He strolls over to a small stand. An elderly woman greets him with a smile and says something he doesn't understand. He simply shrugs apologetically. The woman seems to understand. She picks up some strawberries, cherries and plums and holds them out to him with her small hand. With the other hand she gestures for him to try it. Steve hesitates. What if it's a misunderstanding? He doesn't want a mob of angry saleswomen chasing him with butter knives. But she nods again, so he carefully picks a cherry first, followed by a plum and finally a strawberry. They are all delicious which he tries to tell her by smiling and giving her a thumbs up.

He fetches a few coins from his pockets and points at the cherries first, then at a bag.

"Please?"

He watches her fill the brown paper bag and tries to imagine Bucky doing the very same thing at this very same stand. It would be too much of a coincidence, of course. He doesn't even know if Bucky dared to mingle with the local crowd like that.

He decides that he will just stick with this version in his head.

With the bag of cherries in hand, he walks down the street towards the large, grey concrete building towering above the place. He feels the knot forming in his stomach as he approaches. A few cars are parked here and there, a stray dog barks at him and a group of teenagers are gathered in a doorway playing with a phone. They turn their heads as Steve passes them and he can feel their eyes on his back while he's walking on. Finally, he stops in front of a door that must have been painted blue when the Berlin Wall was still standing. Now the paint is chipped, there are cracks in the concrete and a pile of newspapers is stacked in a corner, the pages already torn at the edges. The door is locked, of course. And there really isn't any reason to go inside, either.

But still, something keeps him in place. He tries to imagine Bucky opening the door, coming home after grocery shopping, face hidden beneath a worn-out cap. He wonders if he knew his neighbors and spoke to them – as far as he knows the Winter Soldier was programmed to speak multiple languages including Romanian, but he isn't sure if Bucky Barnes knows that language as well.

Were the people shocked when the police came and their next door neighbor turned out to be a Russian assassin?

Did anyone miss him when he was gone?

All of a sudden the door opens and a woman steps outside. Quickly, Steve retreats and lets her pass. She eyes him with barely hidden mistrust and he produces his best smile and nods in her direction. The frown remains on the woman's face, but she seems to be in a hurry and doesn't say anything. She vanishes from sight and doesn't notice that the door never falls shut because Steve manages to get his foot in the door.

As soon as the woman has left, he gently pushes the door open and enters the hallway. He recognizes the stairs and the graffiti on the wall. As he climbs the stairs, though, he notices that parts of the balustrade have been replaced and the concrete looks less old and dirty in some places.

For a moment, he feels again the adrenaline rushing through his body, rivalling the feeling of dread clenching his insides, and hears the shouts of the German police and the sound of breaking glass.

He is standing in front of the door that he opened months ago. Somehow it feels like a lifetime has passed, then again it might have been yesterday. Laughter is audible through the door; several pairs of shoes are strewn across the door mat. A small bonnet is lying on the floor that a baby must have lost without anyone noticing. Quietly, Steve picks it up, brushes some dust off it and hangs it unto the door knob. He can hear plates clinking inside, it's lunchtime. He wonders how many people can possibly fit in the small apartment. It's probably just a mother with a kid or two, he thinks, it's not like a whole family could fit in there. On the other hand, he has some personal experience in making do with small flats. He never really appreciated it as a young boy, but the older he got, the more he realized how much of a miracle worker his mother was.

Steve takes a deep breath. He can't go in there and it was probably foolish to even consider the possibility. There wouldn't have been much to find, anyway. But it's good to be here. This place is proof of how Bucky managed to build a life, so he can do it again and God help him, he won't let his friend do it alone this time.

He retreats, goes down the stairs and leaves the building. The door falls shut behind his back.

Something is wrong.

He feels like he's being watched. Without turning his head too much, he scans his surroundings. Garbage bags, a cat, two cars. His muscles become tense. Everything looks normal. But still, he can't shake the feeling that he isn't alone. He heads for the marketplace, pretending to munch on the cherries but all the time staying alert and being ready to jump into combat mode. Nothing happens, though. As he reaches the market place, he relaxes. Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him.

The people are gathering their stuff; it's close to 4 pm and Steve can see that most of the stands are already empty. He picks the last cheery out of the paper bag. He crumples the paper with his right hand and tosses it into the nearest trashcan.

"Couldn't have saved one for me, now, could you?"

He spins on the spot. Instinctively, he reaches behind his back. But of course the shield isn't there, and he doesn't need it anyway.

"Nat."

There she is, smirking, one hand buried in the pocket of her jeans. Her hair is different; it's shorter just as much as his is longer.

"Long time no see, Rogers."

Before he can do anything, she crosses the distance and comes to a stop in front of him. Steve doesn't really know how to greet her. A hug? A pat on the shoulder? Certainly not a handshake.

Nat makes the decision for him and pulls him close for a second before she scans him head to toe.

"Looking good. Sam said you're on some kind of caveman trip, but I like that style."

"I like what you did with your hair."

They're both stalling.

"Wanna grab a coffee? There's a café just round the corner."

She nods, and they make their way down the street. They only start talking when they're sitting in a secluded corner of a little bistro, a latte for Steve and a pitch black brew for Natasha on the table.

"So what are you doing here?" Steve finally asks, which makes her raise a brow.

"I could ask you the same thing, Steve."

"Well, I was first."

"Work," she answers shortly. "I was in Belgrade and thought I might as well meet you here."

"How did you know – never mind."

Of course Nat knows. She always does.

"I'll head back to the States in three days. I could get you on the plane, you know?"

"Nat –"

"I mean it. It's been three months, time to come home."

Everything inside him screams at him to hold up a whole shieldwall instead of answering.

Home.

He lets the word roll inside his head; it's a word he hasn't heard in a long time. Peggy spoke of home when he met her in Wanda's dream. Sam once talked about it, too. And he wants to go home, he really does.

But right now, Steve doesn't even know what home is.

His mother used to refer to Ireland as home. She would talk about Limerick, and despite all the suffering and pain of the past, her eyes would light up when the words on her tongue inevitably changed to her own Gaelic lilt. Until her death, Brooklyn was never her home.

For Steve, on the other hand, the streets and tall buildings, the narrow alleys and fire escapes, the buzzing and the laughter were the puzzle pieces that formed his idea of home. Puzzle pieces, held together by a mother's love, a friend's touch, a will to survive, made a picture, even if some of the pieces went missing or frayed at the edges.

"I can't, Nat."

"You don't even need to stop at the Tower. Avoid Tony, if you must. Just drop by at Clint's or Sam's or –"

"Natasha."

He can't remember the last time he's used her full name. She stops mid-sentence. Looks at him from beneath dark eye lashes, a sad smile playing at her lips; there's something in her eyes he's never seen there before. Compassion.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I know you miss him."

She doesn't specify whether she means Bucky or Tony, and at this point, it's probably one and the same. He misses them both, though in different ways.

"Yes, I do," he admits, casting down his gaze and tracing a drop of coffee that has run down the white porcelain of his mug with his finger. "I screwed up, Nat. And they paid the price. You all did."

"We knew what we signed up for."

"Yeah. But still… all that mess – that's on me. And I can't just go back and pick up the pieces of my old life like nothing's happened, I can't just go home when Buck –"

The words get stuck in his throat.

"I need to deserve it," he adds quietly, "but right now I don't."

He flinches when Natasha reaches out her hand and for a short moment touches his.

"I promise you that we'll bring James home."

The expression in her eyes changes for a blink. It's barely noticeable, but it's there nonetheless. The way she speaks Bucky's name, the way her gaze becomes unfocused for a moment makes Steve realize he isn't the only one who cares for his friend.

"I know what it's like to want to redeem yourself," she says and, probably subconsciously, rubs her wrist with her hand. "Maybe I can help you find a way home. After a little detour."

Steve props his elbows up on the table and leans forward.

"I'm listening."


End file.
